


why don’t you toy with sex and violence?

by benshaws



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benshaws/pseuds/benshaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night they’d decided to skip out on the Musain altogether, if only because Enjolras was more unbearable than ever, for some unexplained reason, and as a result took his frustrations out on Grantaire. Usually Grantaire was more than happy to be a dog that was kicked, especially if the kicker was Enjolras, but Jehan never had been and was the only force great enough to persuade him out of the whole ordeal. Yet, when two pricks with grim, angry faces, and their entourage of less arrogant but equally pretentious friends picked their way over to them, only to snicker “fag” and “dyke” in their direction like they had transgressed back into the years of casual teenage homophobia, Grantaire sort of wished Enjolras was kicking him with his metaphorical boot instead. </p><p>Grantaire had all been set on ignoring it, not particularly giving a shit. Jehan, however, Jehan was a force of nature you didn’t want to reckon with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	why don’t you toy with sex and violence?

**Author's Note:**

> Totally un-beta'd so any and all mistakes are mine. Feel free to come and talk to me at any time on Tumblr! You can find me at benshaws. Title is from Glass Animals' song Cocoa Hooves.

Generally, Jean Prouvaire is a very consistent person. His favourite flowers rotate with the seasons, but he has a particular fondness for poppies and sunflowers. The former, for their political and emotional mark in history, and the latter only because they remind him of the stretching countryside fields of his home country - France. Classical literature is Jehan’s passion, whether Biblical, or Greek, Roman or English. Jean Prouvaire inhales books as often as human beings inhale oxygen in their life time and dotes on words as much as a tree dotes on human nature for its carbon dioxide. Every Thursday he partakes in Hapkido lessons, and every Saturday he goes to a local Yoga class. He usually dresses in pastels or blacks, as juxtaposed as the two extremes of Jehan’s personality: pastels, his infinite kindness, blacks, his impulsive violence. 

That same violence is the one thing that makes Jehan ridiculously unpredictable. On some occasions, when there doesn’t seem to be any other outward or inward influence involved, Jehan can let it go. Others… not so much.

It’s why Grantaire grabs Jehan’s wrist when he hops down from his barstool, his delicate fingers curling in toward his palms, while Grantaire’s other hand remains planted firmly around his beer. Yet, vehemently, Jehan shoves him away, leaving Grantaire exchanging a look with Bahorel behind the bar, who’s jaw is set even if his eyes are just a tad exasperated. With a sigh, Grantaire pulls himself off of the stool, shoving the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.

A little over ten minutes ago, Jehan had been companionably leaning into Grantaire’s side, mouth by his ear so they could talk over the thrum of the music and a hand at Grantaire’s waist. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence. While Cafe Musain homed all their friends, and cheap alcohol and easy talk, Grantaire didn’t particularly feel comfortable with his hand sliding along the sharp jut of Jehan’s knee with Enjolras so close. It wasn’t that Grantaire was ashamed, Grantaire was anything besides, but once Enjolras had caught Jehan’s fingers flexing between Grantaire’s own, and his mouth on his neck, and spent the rest of the evening staring at Grantaire with a look he’d never chosen to decipher but made his heart _ache_ nonetheless. 

Enjolras was always plain in his admission that Grantaire disgusted him, and Grantaire’s infatuation with him more so, but Grantaire was sure he had seen something like jealousy in his gaze when he’d turned around at the wrong moment, Jehan’s lips ghosting over his pulse point. Yet, if Jehan had felt his heart rate spike he hadn’t mentioned it, only, made an excuse for not fucking later on when they were both led out on Jehan’s couch in his high rise apartment, the rain on the windows casting bright shadows on the walls. Instead, he’d held his hand, and kissed Grantaire’s cheekbones, then led him adamantly to bed where all they did was press into one another’s bodies and slept.

As an alternative, the two of them sometimes haunted Bahorel’s bar, sometimes after a lazy evening at the Musain, occasionally, a replacement altogether. More often than not the bar was left in the hands of Bahorel’s employees but sometimes they ran into Bahorel himself behind the counter, who stated “bar tending was in his blood”, as an excuse. 

That night they’d decided to skip out on the Musain altogether, if only because Enjolras was more unbearable than ever, for some unexplained reason, and as a result took his frustrations out on Grantaire. Usually Grantaire was more than happy to be a dog that was kicked, especially if the kicker was Enjolras, but Jehan never had been and was the only force great enough to persuade him out of the whole ordeal. Yet, when two pricks with grim, angry faces, and their entourage of less arrogant but equally pretentious friends picked their way over to them, only to snicker “fag” and “dyke” in their direction like they had transgressed back into the years of casual teenage homophobia, Grantaire sort of wished Enjolras was kicking him with his metaphorical boot instead. 

Grantaire had all been set on ignoring it, not particularly giving a shit. Jehan, however, Jehan was a force of nature you didn’t want to reckon with.

After about the fourth heckle he was spitting words back at them, furious. But the provocation had only set them off more, leading to Jehan being in his current position, on his feet, wild, incandescent, and ridiculously beautiful. 

“Awww,” One of the men coos, leering forward at Jehan as though he had the right to own him, to subject him to this type of abuse. “What are you going to do, punch me?”

Behind the bar, Bahorel’s laugh startles through the room that’s slowly stopped to witness the growing spectacle and Grantaire can’t help but grin with him. Meanwhile, Jehan shrugs a shoulder, and Grantaire can hear the smirk drip from his words, something which shoots straight down into his groin. “Yeah,” He tells them, then throws his fist into the nearest face.

“Oh, shit,” Is the last thing Grantaire hears, from Bahorel, as he takes Jehan’s back, grabbing a guy about to ambush the blonde from the side to plant his fist very firmly in his face. After that, it’s a free for all. Jehan is efficient, putting guys down in a minimal amount of blows, while Bahorel is a lot less sophisticated but with ten times the strength to make up for it. Grantaire tries his best, but when he habitually participates in these sort of events the drink tends to mean everything is blurry, and generally his aim is to be punched as much as possible, rather than actually try to come out winning.

It’s how he falls, tripped up by someone or another, almost clashing his chin into the floor. His shirt is already ripped, his wrist feels loose in a way it shouldn’t, and at one point someone had punched him very sharply in the kidneys, resulting in a sharp, stabbing pain. Yet he’s only down for a second, tugged sharply up by someone with a hand fisted into the back of his shirt, and Grantaire can’t do anything but let it be, brain woozy, the room tipping.

A moment later the hard wood of the bar in pressed into his spine, and he realises too late what’s about to happen when enraged hands start taking it out on his face. He grapples his hands into the shirt of his attacker, but it’s too late for a thing like leverage when his face is being used as dough for a rolling pin. His nose starts bleeding first, cascading down his chin, and next his lip bursts open, and after that all he can taste is blood, blood, blood.

As quickly as the onslaught happens, it’s over. Through blurry eyes Grantaire makes out Bahorel grabbing the other by the back of the shirt, just as Grantaire had been, and decking him smartly in the face. It doesn’t take much before the guy is stumbling away, crying, while Grantaire grasps for a bit of the bar to hold onto, gaping, open-mouthed like a fish, blood dripping down his jaw. 

The fight itself must be over, because Bahorel claps his hands together and shouts, “Right, everybody get the fuck out now or you’ll be getting the same treatment” and a moment later Jehan’s warm, familiar hands are sliding down the bare skin of his elbow. 

“Are you okay?” Jehan asks, back to pastels, voice the epitome of softness, kindness. Gently, but firmly, he tugs Grantaire away from the bar and places him on a barstool while Grantaire tries not too inhale too much blood, from his mouth or his nose.

“Had worse,” He mumbles back, gripping Jehan’s forearm and keeping him close as something to keep his eyes focused on. Blearily, he recognises Bahorel walking past them and pressing a towel into Jehan’s hand. He disappears to deal with the last of the stragglers, mainly those intoxicated few who barely understood a fight had just happened, leaving them together. 

The music cuts off, the last drunken party goers leave, and in the distance Bahorel shoos the last of the staff, giving them the day off and telling them not to come in tomorrow. Meanwhile, Jehan presses the cold, damp towel to Grantaire’s face, dragging it carefully over the blood stains and trying his best to get rid of the evidence. His other hand cups carefully against his jaw, thumb sliding along his jaw at familiar intervals.

Like a camera slowly coming back into focus the world begins to realign itself. His nose has stopped bleeding, but his lip hasn’t followed suit, and from seeing Bahorel, perched on a stool just a little way behind them, Jehan came out the best of all of them. Yet, with his vision clearing, the puzzle pieces coming together, Grantaire soon recognises the harsh blush of blooming bruises below Jehan’s right eye. Feeling more drunk than he is, Grantaire grabs for Jehan’s wrist for the second time that night, something lurching in the pit of his stomach. This time, Jehan does not pull away, but stare at him, making Grantaire notice the darkness to his eyes, pupils blown wild with adrenaline.

“You’re hurt too,” Grantaire states, voice interlaced with worry, bringing a shaking hand up to touch his fingers to the forming bruise. 

Jehan, however, nonplussed, just smiles a little, eyes not leaving him for a second. “Not as much as you.”

“Hmm,” Grantaire groans, dropping his hands and letting Jehan go back to his ministrations, slowly curving the towel down his jaw line. “You’re probably right.”

In silence, Jehan cleans Grantaire up while Bahorel keeps an eye on them from across the room. When Jehan gets to his lips however, he freezes, gaze fixed on Grantaire’s open mouth as Grantaire watches the other. “What?” Grantaire mumbles, trying, and failing to quirk an eyebrow. 

Jehan startles, caught out by his words, and a flush grows on his cheeks for a whole other reason than post-fight wounds. He does however, look Grantaire in the eye as he runs his thumb over Grantaire’s mouth, smearing blood over the slightly swollen skin of his lips, and breathes out, “You look so hot like this.”

Grantaire barely has time to feel surprised when Jehan’s mouth replaces his thumb, and instead ends up making an entirely undignified sound that could equally be from the pain or the pleasure. Jehan’s tongue runs over the seam of his lips, clearing off the blood just smudged there by his hand and then he virtually sucks at the open wound on his mouth, leaving Grantaire hissing, fingers digging in to his hipbone through his skinny jeans. It’s pleasure, and pain, and fire, and the sound is enough to have Jehan recoiling back, searching for askance with his eyes. Grantaire answers him by pulling their mouths back together, a hand curling into his hair, and whimpering at the metallic taste of blood on his tongue as Jehan takes him apart with his lips, sliding in between Grantaire’s open legs. 

Somewhere he recognises that he likely has a concussion, and Bahorel is still sat across from them, gaze black, transfixed, but Grantaire doesn’t have the brain power to care right now. He’s rushed with adrenaline, thrumming with the beginnings of pain, and aching into the beginnings of pleasure, and Jehan’s a familiar, blistering heat Grantaire wants to burn up in.

They pull back, gasping breaths between them, Grantaire’s hands now twisted in Jehan’s bloodied jumper and Jehan’s fingers splayed out across Grantaire’s thighs. “R,” Jehan mumbles, low enough that the word is only for them, as Grantaire drops his head onto Jehan’s shoulder and replies with his hands, sliding his palms flat across Jehan’s chest in response. Only because of this Grantaire manages to notice the state of Jehan’s hands, his knuckles bust open, patterned with fresh bruises. Instantly, Grantaire sits up, dragging one hand up with him and holding it gently in his own.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Grantaire tells him, suddenly angry, imagining Jehan with more than busted knuckles and a splattering of bruises. He can see him now, on the bar floor, his stupid fucking sweater covered in his own blood and his eyes dead to the world. Hell, it’s enough to make him _furious_. It’s enough to make him _hurt_. “What if one of them had had a knife?”

“I couldn’t just sit by and let them be homophobic,” Jehan replies, insistent. The tone of his voice is enough to remind Grantaire of Enjolras, both in it’s resolve and it’s easy heroic righteousness. It startles him enough to make him _need_ to do something to push that thought away, throw it off a cliff, because though Jehan and Grantaire had never been anything official or regular Jehan was still _his_. So, only with the slightest hesitation, he presses his lips to the joint of his wrist to distract himself. “What if they had done the same to someone who hadn’t been able to defend themselves? I couldn’t-“

Jehan chokes over his words with a gasp, as Grantaire takes one of his beaten, bloodied knuckles into his mouth and sucks at it gently. Almost on par to the sound Bahorel breathes out, “Jesus fucking christ” from his seat, as though he’d just been a witness to the dirtiest thing in the world.

Grantaire crosses his mouth over the next knuckle, and the next, Jehan’s sounds fluttering in his stomach, the splintered exhales of pain and pleasure. Looking back up, he finds Bahorel has moved from his stool, led over by Jehan’s eyes, and when close enough, Jehan grabs him by the front of his shirt, tugging him over, and twisting around enough to clash their mouths together.

Jehan makes a beautifully broken noise, one hand lingering at Grantaire’s shoulder and the other dragging down Bahorel’s chest, occasionally clenching into the material of his top. They kiss breathlessly, open mouthed and heated, in an obvious struggle for dominance. Bahorel gripping Jehan’s waist, Jehan digging his fingers abruptly into Bahorel’s ribs, making Bahorel grunt. Yet, Bahorel doesn’t stay long, breaking the kiss after a moment and leaving Jehan flushed, lips parted, mouth aching forward for more. With a grin bordering on the side of smug, Bahorel just nips at Jehan’s bottom lip then steps around him to gently cup his hands against Grantaire’s face.

Unlike with Jehan, Bahorel asks, “May I?” as his thumb traces gently over his cheek with a tenderness Grantaire doesn’t expect but all but disappears when Grantaire nods and Bahorel presses their mouths together. 

Bahorel tastes like whiskey and something else he can’t quite place, but chases after anyway, curious and hungry for it, even as it gets mixed into the taste of blood, all consuming. It’s desperate, Grantaire scraping his teeth along Bahorel’s bottom lip as he drags his hands along his hips, pulling him closer while Bahorel makes a low, guttural noise in the back of his throat Grantaire wants to rip out of him and fists a hand into his hair, hauling Grantaire forward until all Grantaire can do is stumble up from his stool and plaster himself against the other. Grantaire tries to claim that noise again as they press into one another, hips clashing against hips, chest glued to chest, Bahorel sliding one hand down his shoulder blades, grasping at the small of Grantaire’s back. 

Grantaire breaks the kiss first, mouth split back open but grinning, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking down at it as it comes back red. Bahorel tracks the gesture with his eyes, hovering over him for a moment and Grantaire kisses him again, licking into his mouth as he reaches out blindly for Jehan. 

Jehan finds him, hand curling around his own and when he feels he’s close enough Grantaire turns away from the kiss to find Jehan’s mouth instead. Jehan kisses him like he’s claiming him, like he wants to claw his way inside of him, hands bracketing his hips, sliding sporadically beneath his shirt, over his ribs, accidentally finding a bruise and then _purposely_ digging his fingers into the spot, so Grantaire writhes and whimpers beneath him, helpless. Meanwhile Bahorel drags his bare hands across his stomach, ending up pressed flush against Grantaire’s back while Jehan sandwiches him in on the other side. It’s so close, claustrophobic, enough to have him shaking from sensory over load rather than the left over dregs of adrenaline as Bahorel sucks at a spot on his neck, and Bahorel and Jehan’s hands flutter over one another beneath his shirt, and Jehan slots their hips together until he can feel the push of Jehan’s erection against his own.

“Christ,” Bahorel mutters, into the crease of Grantaire’s neck as Jehan dots kisses along Grantaire’s jaw. “If you could see yourselves.”

The words seem punctuated by the slam of Jehan’s hips, suddenly insistent, only making Grantaire moan louder, trapped between mouths, and bodies, and suddenly, acutely feeling Bahorel’s dick pressed against his arse, enough so that he ends up muttering “Fuck” into Jehan’s throat. All he can do is ache back into Bahorel’s body, one hand dragging around to grasp some part of his side and wringing his fingers into the hem of Jehan’s jeans with the other, but then he feels Bahorel hips pushing forward yet again, making him scrabble around between them.

“What the fuck is _that_ ,” Grantaire growls, falling ungracefully to his knees in a manner which will only leave him with more bruises by tomorrow and grappling with the front of Bahorel’s jeans. Above him Bahorel makes a slight noise that might have been the beginnings of an answer, but ends up muffled by Jehan’s mouth while Grantaire struggles to pull Bahorel’s jeans down. He ends up staring, mouth slack, at Bahorel’s dick - because obviously he’s the type of guy to go commando - because _holy shit_. Bahorel could easily be doubling as a porn star in his spare time if he wanted to.

Letting out a broken sound Grantaire carefully slides his hands down the now bare skin of Bahorel’s thighs. Grantaire is wanting - needing - to taste Bahorel on his tongue so bad, to see if Grantaire can manage that much in his mouth, to make Bahorel beg for it, that he barely pauses before he wraps his mouth around the length of Bahorel’s cock. Distantly, Grantaire hears Bahorel whine, smothered probably by Jehan’s mouth, or by his skin, or by his teeth digging into his bottom lip. For a while, he’s tame, testing the waters and flicking his tongue out along the head of Bahorel’s dick, tracing his mouth across the veins, using his mouth with his hands, to make Bahorel illicit soft, harsh noises, that are rarely not muted in some way or another.

Then, in one swift gesture, he takes Bahorel down his throat, until Grantaire’s face is pressed up against his skin and Bahorel is stringing profanities above him, hand fisting into his hair and the other clawing at Jehan’s side. Quickly pulling back to gasp for air he pants, wetly.

“Fuck me.”

When Bahorel looks down at him in somewhat stupefied surprise, one hand shoved down Jehan’s jeans and the other still pressed into his hair, Grantaire bites at the inside of his thigh and adds a desperate, “Please.”

Bahorel stares at him for a moment longer then manages, “Yeah.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Then curls a hand around Grantaire’s shoulder and lifts him up, planting another kiss to his mouth, infinitely softer than the last until Grantaire shoves a little harder and it turns as messy as the bar fight, and ends as quickly. When Bahorel pulls back, hand braced against the side of Grantaire’s neck his expression is suddenly exasperated, pinched, and Grantaire thinks about asking when Bahorel says, “Lube and shit is upstairs.”

Jehan’s hands wander conspicuously over Grantaire’s waist from behind, inching beneath his shirt and dragging his fingers across all those sensitive little pressure points Jehan has learned about over the years. Making Grantaire shudder beneath him, bucking his hips forward somewhat to try and get some friction on his aching cock, trapped in the confines of his jeans. Making Grantaire’s voice particularly ragged when he says, “Please” again.

Bahorel groans, and kisses the plea right out of his mouth, quick and dirty, then breaks away to jog over to the stairs leading up to Bahorel’s apartment on the second floor. 

Alone, Jehan dips his fingers down past the hem of his jeans, curling them there at the wiry hairs trailing down toward his cock and not moving them anywhere else. 

“Tease,” Grantaire mutters, sighing as Jehan slides his mouth against his throat, biting a grin into the point where his neck meets his shoulder. 

“You love it,” Jehan returns, sliding his hands away from Grantaire to press a palm flat between his shoulders there, pushing firmly against his spine until Grantaire submits and begins walking. 

“Only because I’m a dirty slut,” Grantaire grins, as Jehan begins pushing his shirt off from behind. Taking the cue Grantaire pulls the material over his head and chucks it haphazardly somewhere to the right of them. 

“You really are,” Jehan admits, like it’s a good thing, fingers pressing back against his spine and still manoeuvring him to an unknown destination. When the bar’s pool table comes in to view, however, Grantaire’s laughter is ripped ragged with desire.

“Really?” He asks, barely getting the word out before Jehan shoves on the space between his shoulders, slamming Grantaire’s face against the green cloth and making him laugh all over again, Jehan’s fingers caressing down his spine, soon replaced by his mouth. 

Dipping his tongue into the dimples on his lower back and tugging at his jeans, Jehan grins into his skin, “Really.”

Soon enough Jehan manages to drop Grantaire’s jeans around his ankles and settles on torturing him, lightly dragging his fingers over the front of Grantaire’s boxers, going so much as rubbing the head of his cock until the material is damp with precome and Grantaire is whining, quietly, face smooshed against the top of the billiard table. 

“If you don’t do something right now I swear to God-“ Grantaire moans, barely a snap, when Jehan abruptly pulls his boxers down his thighs, splits his cheeks and presses his tongue against Grantaire’s hole, making all coherent words slide away to, “-Fuck, fucking fuck shit, _fuck_.”

That’s how Bahorel finds them again a few moments later. Grantaire obediently bent over the pool table, hands laid out in front of him like a crime scene, whimpering like a beaten dog, with his fingernails scrabbling for any sort of _grip_ and Jehan slowly, leisurely taking Grantaire apart with his mouth. 

He stares at them for a second, and then swears, “Can you stop doing this when I leave the room, fucking hell.”

Lazily, Jehan finishes curling his tongue to sit back (Grantaire letting out a broken whine), breaking out into a languid, smug grin Bahorel looks like he’s just fallen in love with, and murmurs, “Let me.”

Pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it on the table beside Grantaire’s head, Bahorel hands Jehan the lube, as Grantaire wriggles impatiently against the table. “Jehan,” Grantaire whines, hips arching up into nothingness until Jehan’s hands smooth down his sides, having the instant effect of making Grantaire go still, lay passive and open, legs spread out for him. With a kiss that acts like a reward, dropped between his shoulder blades, Jehan leans over him, sliding a finger inside of Grantaire and making him keen into it. 

He adds a second, a third, going as fast as he knows Grantaire can manage and then abruptly _twists_ his fingers, crooking them against that spot which makes Grantaire sees white, makes him cry out, clawing his fingers into the table. Somewhere behind him Bahorel let’s out a sound.

“You’re a screamer?” He asks, one of those broad, broad hands splaying out over Grantaire’s hip. Being fucked slow on Jehan’s fingers, all Grantaire makes is a low, grumbling sound but Jehan answers for him.

“He can be,” Jehan replies and even with his face pressed into the table Grantaire can hear the smirk in his words, shudders at the context of those words, the past nights of Grantaire muffling screams into pillows so as not to wake the neighbours. Then, very carefully, Jehan removes his fingers, Grantaire biting down a disappointed noise, Bahorel stepping up behind him, calloused hands smoothing over his back. 

“Please, Bahorel,” He mutters, but Bahorel doesn’t enter him yet, just gently pulls him back up to stand and then turns him around to face him, choosing instead to press Grantaire onto the table so he’s led out on his back, legs spread. Staring down at him Bahorel groans, mouth scraping over one of Grantaire’s knees, and then pushing inside of him.

It burns. Bahorel is so fucking big and although Grantaire isn’t exactly a virgin, it still hurts enough that Grantaire is dragging his nails down Bahorel’s forearm, clenching his teeth. But Bahorel takes it slow, stopping every so often to kiss Grantaire’s jaw, or rub soothing circles onto his hip. Eventually though, suddenly, Bahorel is pressed entirely inside him and a part of Grantaire feels like it’s _breaking_. “Fuck me,” He snarls, nails wrecking lines over Bahorel’s bicep, hips arching up. “Fuck me, please.”

So, Bahorel does. He slams his hips forward into him, making Grantaire shout, body arching off the table, cock pressed hard against his stomach, flushed red and aching. It’s brutal, and Grantaire goes wild with it, shoving back into every thrust, scoring marks onto his back with his fingers, driving into Bahorel’s kisses, cries turning to whimpers every time Bahorel occasionally angles a thrust just right, brushing that spot inside of him which has his vision blurring. They push, and shove, and pull, and Grantaire feels like he’s being driven into by the ocean, his jagged edges being crushed smooth by Bahorel’s hands, beneath the tide. It’s no wonder neither of them last long, one of their hands tangled together against the green, sticking together, sweat slick, and Grantaire’s knuckles aching from the pressure, Bahorel’s other wrapped around Grantaire’s cock, jerking him off in an unsteady beat. When Grantaire does he let’s out an embarrassingly loud cry, ragged and spent, followed shortly after by Bahorel who’s noise is blurred out by Grantaire’s brain fuzzing around the edges, eyes squeezed shut and head pressed back into the table. 

They both stay like that for a minute, breathing, foam on the shore, and then Bahorel ghosts a kiss to his mouth and pulls out of him, staggering backward. Grantaire almost passes out like that, panting against the pool table, sweat and come drying on his skin but the sound of a low moan is enough to pull him out of the haze, and turn his head in the direction of the sound.

Jehan, still fully dressed apart from where his jeans and boxers are pushed down his thighs, sat on the barstool Bahorel had been when this whole rendezvous had started now has Bahorel’s mouth on his cock, a hand fisted inelegantly in his hair and bucking up into the heat. Shakily, Grantaire lifts himself from the table, already aware of how tomorrow he’ll be paying for it from the twinge in his back and the ache beneath his thighs, to stumble over to them. 

Cupping a hand against his jaw he and Jehan kiss, open mouthed but with tenderness, Jehan’s spare hand grappling against Grantaire’s wrist. When Jehan comes Grantaire catches his noise on his tongue, and kisses him until he’s down from the high.

After that, it’s an effort to stumble up to Bahorel’s bed, but they manage it and when they drift awake the next day, Grantaire and Jehan curled on either side of the bartender, it’s an unanimous decision to not do a fucking thing but touch, and talk, and doze, and kiss one another on the mouth.


End file.
